


Hurricane

by everybreathagift



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: GW2017B, Ian is a terrible drunk, Jealousy, M/M, Non-explicit mention of Mickey/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreathagift/pseuds/everybreathagift
Summary: Ian really is a terrible drunk. Mickey is incapable of denying him anything. It's a great mix.





	Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> So, this will probably be expanded into a five chapter fic because I've got a whole idea about this scenario (how Ian would probably fall apart if Mick came back with someone and how Mickey would at least try to stay away for awhile) but I make no promises on when that might happen. If this feels rushed, it's because my brain couldn't separate the o/s from the full length trying to brew in my head.
> 
> Not beta-ed. The title comes from a Luke Combs song.

Ian watches them from across The Alibi, hiding in his corner like a total fucking creeper but unable to really give a fuck. The guy is good looking, of course. Got a great smile and his eyes look caramel but Ian can’t tell for sure. Mickey hasn’t noticed him yet and that’s probably for the best. 

Any time they run into one another, Mickey ends up leaving. They’re civil. Mickey treats Ian like a friend, even, asking him how he’s doing and such but never anything more than that.

He’s been back in the South Side for a few months, and up until Ian found out, he thought he was okay without him. He wasn’t happy, but he was making it. Then Mickey shows back up with some dude and Ian hears how he was pardoned for helping bring down some serious criminal ring in Mexico or some shit and that was it. Ian was done for. Mickey never left his thoughts.

But he could tell from their first run-in on the street that Mickey didn’t feel that way for him anymore. Well, no, that wasn’t right. Mickey felt  _ something _ , he had to. Because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t intentionally avoid Ian. He’s never shown any anger, and Ian would almost prefer that. At least it’d be a conversation.

The guy- Gabriel, Ian thinks his name is, what a fucking stupid name- has his arm around Mickey and he leans in to whisper something in Mickey’s ear. Mickey grins and Ian wants to laugh because he knows what Mickey looks like when he’s actually smiling and that ain’t it. He’s just going along. Or maybe Ian is just wishful thinking.

“This is it, man, you know I gotta cut you off after this,” Kev says when he sets down Ian’s second beer. Ian nods, taking a huge gulp as Kev sighs and follows Ian’s line of sight. “Go talk to him.”

“Can’t,” Ian mumbles, feeling terrible and brooding like a child, despite being a bit drunk already. “He doesn’t wanna talk to me. He’s got that beefhead motherfucker anyway.”

Kev just looks sad and it makes Ian even more upset. “Let me know if I can help you get home, alright? And… just trust me. Beefhead motherfucker may have him now, but he doesn’t  _ have  _ him, know what I mean?”

But they’re here, together, openly touching and laughing with another. Ian grits his teeth when the douchenozzle drags his hand over Mickey’s lower back. He’s tempted to get up and break that fucking pool stick over his head. The beer isn’t helping. He’s getting drunker by the second.

He finishes the glass anyway.

It’s pathetic, how much Ian misses him. How badly he wishes he could go back and change everything. Start over. Never let Terry find them, never go off to the army, never let him go after Sammi. Never let him cross the border alone.

Take Mickey out on dates.

Out of everything, that hurts Ian the most. How their happiness seemed to always be torn from them, swiftly and with force. They were gonna go out that night. They were gonna put on nice shirts and eat bloody rare steaks. They were  _ this  _ close to making it.

Ian’s so caught up in his own self pity that he can’t even look away or try to hide when Mickey notices him. He just watches, sad and lonely, as Mickey’s face goes blank and then softens. He’s still watching when Mickey looks away, tugs at that asshole’s shirt and jerks his head toward the door. Watches them walk out of it together, Mickey not even giving Ian another glance as they leave.

So, if asked why he decided to go to Mickey’s house two hours later, he wouldn’t have an answer, except that he’s still drunk and Mickey is  _ his _ . He has been since they were fucking teenagers. They’ve been through too much to belong to anyone but each other.

He bangs on the door, not even considering the possibility that Mickey might open it with a gun in his hand. Or that Gabriel might be some martial arts badass or some shit. He just knows that he’s gotta see Mickey. He’s gotta tell him.

“Gallagher?” Mickey answers the door, looking rumpled in grey sweat pants and wife beater. Looking perfect and soft and like everything Ian has ever wanted in his entire fucking life. “The hell are you doing here?” Mickey steps out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him.

“We never got our date,” Ian says desperately, grasping at Mickey’s dirty white tank. “We didn’t get to go.”

“Ian, you drunk, man?” Mickey asks, reaching up to wrap his hands around Ian’s wrists, gently. When Ian just swallows, Mickey sighs, “you know you can’t fuckin’ drink with your meds.” Then, after a pause, “you’re not off your meds, are you?”

“No,” Ian responds immediately, with force. “I only had two beers but, you know…”

Mickey nods. “Yeah, I know.” He tilts his head, searching Ian’s eyes. “You okay?”

“We never got to go,” Ian says again, reaching up to take Mickey’s face between his palms. “You know? Nice shirts, eat with utensils. You and me.”

“What, like at Sizzlers?” Mickey grins, kind of happy and kind of sad all at the same time. “Ian, it’s late. Why don’t I stop by-”

“Babe? What’s going on?”

Ian feels bile rise in the back of his throat, and his hands start shaking. It’s Gabriel, stepping out onto the porch, shirtless, looking mussed and sleepy. Mickey immediately steps back, away from Ian’s touch and Gabriel slides his hand around Mickey’s waist.

“Babe?” Ian laughs, hysterical and disgusted. “He fucking calls you ‘babe?’ Could you be more of a fag, man?”

“Well, I also fucked him into the mattress this morning, so, no, not really,” Gabriel smiles. Ian wants to punch the smugness off his face.

“Ian, let’s get you home, huh?” Mickey says, trying to diffuse the situation which makes Ian feel a little like he’s entered the twilight zone. Since when is he the aggressive one?

“He’s a big boy, he can make it on his own.”

“Was he fucking talking to you?” Ian snaps, stumbling forward. “The fuck do you see in him, Mick?”

“You mean besides the fact that I’m sane and never fucked around on him?” Gabriel says, stepping forward to match Ian’s stance.

“Hey. Gabe, that’s enough, watch what you fuckin’ say.” Mickey warns, sliding in between the two of them and placing his hand on Ian’s chest. “Back up, tough guy.”

Ian sort of feels like he’s been punched, bitter memories of all the ways he’s fucked up and fucked Mickey over swirling through his drunk brain.

Gabriel laughs. “Oh, he can show up here in the middle of the night but  _ I’ve _ gotta watch what I say?”

“Yo, you’re always welcome to fuck off if you got a problem,” Mickey responds plainly, keeping his eyes on Ian’s. “Let me throw a shirt on and I’ll walk home with you, yeah? Don’t do anything fuckin’ stupid.” He turns around and pushes Gabriel back a bit more. “That goes for you, too, asswipe.” Then he disappears inside.

Ian just takes a deep breath and looks down at his shoes. If he keeps looking at the motherfucker, he’s gonna hit him.

“You know it’s never gonna happen again, right?” Gabriel says, crossing his arms over his chest. “He may not love me but he’s done with you.”

Ian grits his teeth. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know that he deserves better than a punk ass little bitch like you.”

So, it’s not like, an  _ intentional _ thing when Ian clocks him in the jaw. He doesn’t think about doing it, then decide, then take action. It just sort of happens. He also doesn’t mean to keep swinging when the piece of shit hits the porch with a thud, but that happens, too.

“Ian, what the fuck?” Mickey shouts, and he feels strong hands grip his shoulders and push him back. Ian must’ve dropped to knees at some point because he lands on his ass. “You don’t listen for shit, man. Gabe, look at me.”

“That… that crazy fucker-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey cuts him off, pulling him up. “Go inside. We’ll talk when I fuckin’ get home.” Immediately, he turns back around to Ian and crouches in front of him. “You alright, tough guy?”

“‘M fine,” Ian whispers, suddenly choked by how close Mickey is.

“Don’t got a scratch on you. Fucked your knuckles up real good, though. C’mon.” He takes Ian’s hands and helps them stand up together. “You and liquor still don’t mix.”

Ian wants to respond but they’re so close that the words get lost in Ian’s throat. He can feel Mickey’s chest against his, can see how pink Mickey’s lips look. He wants to kiss him so badly.

“Mick,” Ian murmurs, leaning in a bit, both a choice and not, all at the same time.

Mickey steps back and drops Ian’s hands suddenly, but his voice is still soft when he speaks again. “Walk, Gallagher. Keepin’ my old ass up way past my fuckin’ bedtime.”

When they get to his house, Ian feels like he’s sobered up, at least a little. His hands fucking throb, but Mickey had bumped shoulders with him pretty much the entire walk so he’s okay.

“Alright, man, you good? I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Don’t know, Mick. Might need help getting up the stairs. Probably into bed, too.”

Mickey gets that smirk on his face, the one that means he  _ knows _ Ian’s bullshitting him, crooked and paired with a downward glance. Ian can only grin in response.  

“I’ll get you to the couch but that’s the fuckin’ line. No one else home?”

“Nope,” Ian answers, hoping it doesn’t make Mickey change his mind.

Mickey’s hand is on his elbow, guiding him up the porch, and through the front door. Ian still stumbles a bit as he makes it over to the couch, plopping down hard as Mickey stands in front of him, glancing around. He rubs his eyebrow with his thumb.

“Sleep it off, okay?” He says softly, tilting his head as he glances down at Ian. “Don’t make this a fuckin’ habit. The drinking, I mean. And the fighting.”

Ian swallows hard and sits up, placing his hands on the side of Mickey’s knees. He can’t let him leave. He can’t let him go back to  _ him . _

“Mick,” Ian whispers, looking up at him from under his lashes. He runs his palms up and down the outside of Mickey’s thighs. “Stay. Please?”

Mickey breathes harshly through his nose, staring down at Ian with his brow furrowed and his lip between his teeth. “I can’t.”

“Please,” Ian begs again, reaching up to pull Mickey’s sweat pants down a little. “Just let me…” Ian trails off as his mouth finds Mickey’s hip bone, gently scraping his teeth over the skin.

“Fuck,” Mickey rasps, moving his clenched fist from his side to thread his fingers through Ian’s hair. “You’re drunk as fuck, man.”

“I’m only drunk because seeing you with him drove me out of my fucking mind,” Ian mumbles, kissing his way across Mickey’s lower stomach. “I want you so much.”

“Don’t know if I can do this with you again. You fuck me up, Ian, you  _ know _ you do.”

“But I won’t,” Ian promises, pulling back to look up at Mickey’s face again. “Never again, I swear.”

Mickey meets his gaze, and Ian realizes just how sober he is now because the nerves are back full force. He’s gonna fall apart if Mickey walks out of here right now.

Mickey shakes his head and Ian feels like he can’t breathe.

“Fuck it,” Mickey mutters right before bending down to claim Ian’s lips.

It’s not gentle or soft but then again they rarely are. Mickey kisses like he’s consuming, and this time is no different. Ian groans against those full lips, gripping Mickey’s hips and pulling him down to straddle Ian’s lap. Mickey’s hands are on Ian’s throat while Ian’s hands move to clutch at Mickey’s ass and Christ, it’s so fucking perfect. Mickey is fucking perfect.

Ian’s cock is already throbbing, and it only worsens when he feels just how hard Mickey is when their hips meet. All he wants in the world is to take Mickey apart. Watch him shatter to pieces because of Ian. Panting heavily, he pulls back only far enough to rest his forehead against Mickey’s and to slip two fingers into his mouth, drenching them with spit before slipping his hand down the front of Mickey’s pants.

The position takes the pleasurable pressure off of Ian’s cock but it’s entirely worth it when he slides those fingers into Mickey’s hole. So entirely fucking worth it when Mickey  _ moans _ . He flexes his wrist, slowly fucking Mickey with two fingers.

“Ian…”

They alternate between kissing and sharing breaths but they never separate. Mickey is clinging so tightly to Ian’s shoulders, rocking his hips to ride Ian’s hand.

“He make you feel like this?” Ian groans, curling his fingers inward to hit his mark. “Make you come untouched? Until you’re shaking all over from it?”

Mickey moans again and Ian’s cock aches. His hips are arching uselessly, involuntarily, desperate for any sort of attention but he’s too focused on Mickey to really care.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” Mickey whispers against Ian’s mouth. “Nothin’ fuckin’ feels like this. The way you do.”

Ian feels like he’s on fire. He presses in hard while his other hand digs into Mickey’s lower back, nails carving into his skin.

“Wanna make you come so bad,” Ian says, biting Mickey’s bottom lip.

“You’re gonna,” Mickey pants, nodding against Ian. “Christ, Ian, just a little more, c’mon,” he starts babbling, his downward thrusts onto Ian’s fingers turning jerky.

Mickey’s fingers curl against the back of Ian’s neck and his whole body goes tight. Ian licks his lips as Mickey clenches around his hand, his own cock throbbing in time with Mickey’s pulsing. Mickey grunts through it, then whimpers a little when Ian keeps going for a moment afterwards.

“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey breathes, collapsing heavily onto Ian as Ian slides his hand out of Mickey’s pants.

“You’re everything, holy fuck,” Ian groans, still lost in it all. Still wanting but satisfied at the same time because Mickey’s harsh breaths against his neck are better than anything he’s felt in ages.

Mickey’s hand slips from Ian’s neck to his chest, limply, and his legs finally relax. Ian glides his palm over Mickey’s back, under his shirt, trying to recommit every inch of flesh to his memory again. Every single important piece, which is every piece.

They don’t speak for a while, just listening to each other breathe in the quiet. Mickey presses his forehead to Ian’s shoulder. “We gonna do this again?” Mickey asks quietly, trying to sound strong but Ian can hear the insecurity in it anyway.

_ Us . _ Not  _ this . _

“I want to,” Ian admits. “You’re under my skin, man, the fuck can I do?”

Mickey breathes a laugh, burying his face in Ian’s neck. “Yeah. Ditto.” Ian squeezes him tight, closing his eyes and trying not to cry from relief. After a few more moments of silence, Mickey bites at his throat, slips his hand between them to cup Ian’s cock and says, “Goddamn, Gallagher, gotta get you jealous more often.”

Ian’s never been so in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
